Shadows Brought to Light
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: In which the police inspector finds himself in custody of a willful child and everything turns out not as terribly as expected.


**Notes**: There are a few initial differences in order to make this work, the biggest essentially being that the Thénardiers begin losing the inn sooner, making their need for money a little more desperate. Everything else is just the result.

* * *

There were signs from the beginning —

_The patrons look about as disreputable as the inn itself, and as worn-out. _

_He has minimal trouble with them, however, only a bit of obvious tricks by the madame which are soon given up when the innkeeper called Thénardier_ _leads the blinking, bleary-eyed child out to stand before them._

"_Cosette," the man says, giving the girl a little push, "the inspector here is going to look after you a while. Of course," he continues with a hand pressed to his heart, and his falsely-bereaved expression is given away by an insincere flash of teeth and the words, "of course, there is the matter of something to, ah, ease the heartache—?"_

— and he should have known it sooner.

If the hesitance they showed before waking the child didn't do it, the familiar way they spoke to the her, whispering long notes of comfort to her while stroking her dark hair, should have. He should have been more suspicious, or at least _acted_ on such suspicions, but he hadn't; he had more important matters to occupy his thoughts than the odd habits of innkeepers.

He should have seen it in the way she reacted to the curt declaration that her mother could no longer come for her — or, rather, _didn't_ react, only continued to stare petulantly at him despite the curtness of the comment, the nearest he could come to comforting.

He should have seen in in the way she found a reason to complain about every little thing around her and expressed a desire to go _home_.

He should have seen it in the curl of her lips each time he called her by name, by the way her round face displayed such a look of contempt with every repetition of 'Cosette,' but he hadn't.

But he didn't.

Because he had only found out when, only minutes after dismounting from the horse she had so vocally expressed her disliking for, she wriggled away, stamped a tiny foot, and demanded that he not call her _Cosette_, because _Cosette_ is _stupid_and_ ugly _and_ I-hate-her-aren't-we-done-with-this-game-yet_?

And now the child regards him with dark, solemn eyes, the tip of her nose barely reaching the table, and her swinging feet audibly scuffing the floor.

She has folded her hands on the table as if in preparation for some debate — indeed, after her first response of "_you are not my papa. Why should I listen to you?_" this is all it has been — and he has a feeling he has gotten more than he bargained for with this little miss.

The thought he suggested, trying to find some way to play along with a child's ideas as clumsily as he can, that perhaps the game has gone on long enough and she would be permitted to return home, is the one that has been given the most contemplation.

"Alright," she says after a long moment, and she nods with such firm finality that her little curls bob. "Only we cannot leave tonight; I am too tired to travel. Mama said a man came to bargain for Cosette, and good riddance to her."

She says this in the way of a child repeating what they have heard without truly understanding, and he asks her, silently cursing both them and himself for not having seen it, when this was.

She shrugs. "Dunno. I didn't care, but mama would know."

She slides from her chair so that she is made to seem all the more small and regards him for a moment more. "I am going to sleep now, and you must keep your promise. And," she adds, as she is halfway across the room, "I am Éponine. You are not allowed to forget."

One night. The blockade must be seen to, anyway, and all the more if the child is not actually accounted for.

One day more, and he will be done with her, and perhaps one step closer to catching this man.

* * *

Except that it is empty.

Not only is there nobody inside, but the inn is stripped.

In less than three days, they have managed to clear the establishment of anything even _resembling_ value, so that he walls are bare and the rooms contain only things too dirty or broken to have been deemed worth the effort.

He sees what may be realization cross her face for a moment, just long enough that it appears as if she is collapses into herself, and then she is rearranged, drawn up in a way that is _almost_ stoic.

He has no words to comfort her.

(But, later, some of the carriages, stopping to show their riders to those patrolling the blockade, are greeted by the sight of a small child wearing an inspector's hat, a look of utter solemnity upon her face.

It isn't much, but afterwards it makes her smile so that her dimples show, and she is not so sorrowful at the idea of waiting out the grace period before her parents resurface.)


End file.
